Portia Rising

Prologue

October 2007

On the Snohomish River in Washington State, the esplanade on the Alma Goodrich mansion was decked out for a party. The honored guest was Portia Fraser, Alma’s best friend. The long linen-covered table was spread with the finest foods, provided by a caterer from the Pike Place Market in Seattle. At the end of the table were six magnums of champagne, each in its own ice bucket.

The gathering guests were scattered along the gracefully sloping lawn down by the river, watching the bald eagles skimming along the tranquil surface of the water. Occasionally, an eagle would snatch up a salmon and fly with it to a nest of fledglings. Alma’s party was held to offer recognition to the skill and professional integrity of one of the best lawyers in Cascade County. The September sun was golden, spreading its warmth on the faces of Alma and Portia.

The two women stood arm in arm, contemplating their friendship. They were both tall and slender, but otherwise quite different. Portia was more handsome than beautiful. She wore her hair short. She had good legs but small, almost-flat, breasts. She had a seductive curve to her thighs and bottom, and she was extremely fit from riding her big mare, Furious.

Alma, a radiologist, was California cool, often wearing flamboyant print dresses cut low with a push-up bra, emphasizing her beauty and sexuality. She once told her friend that she was not promiscuous because she never had more than one lover at a time. To Portia, Alma was a breath of fresh air not too often found in the small community in which she practiced law.

Portia’s friendship with Alma warmed after she extracted the physician from an extramarital affair with one of her law partners, Charlie Danzig. Under the tutelage of her lawyer, Alma had prospered to the point of substantial wealth. Consequently, the women owned an apartment in the Fleur de Lys in Paris, and they had vacationed there together.

They returned to the feast and to many rounds of toasts among the clients, patients, and friends of the two women. In culmination, Alma read a toast received by mail from Portia’s daughter, Katrina, from Stanford University: I’m sorry I can’t be at your party, Aunt Alma, but here’s my toast to my mother, Portia Fraser. She’s a lawyer for all seasons.

Alma turned and impulsively embraced Portia. Portia’s eyes welled with tears and pride. In her heart, she knew it was a tribute from her daughter to her skill as a lawyer, and it gave her great pride. She threw her arms in the air in exultation.

October 2008

Monrovia, Cascade County, Washington

In the early morning hours, Portia sat at her computer in her opulent offices that looked out at the mountains that form the volcanic chain. Her office building was across the street from the regional justice center. Among her other duties as managing partner for Fraser, Macomb and Johnston LLP was that of administrator.

For an hour, she had been pondering the caseload of the firm, both in Monrovia and in their main office in Cascade City. It was plain she needed to hire at least one new lawyer.

In the post-911 years, and with the winding down of the war in Iraq, Cascade County prospered with a mix of farming, logging, fishing, and some manufacturing, along with recreation. This was accelerated by the expansion of the suburbs from Snohomish and King counties. There was a construction boom, and with all the forces at work, crime became inevitable.

She looked at her watch. The Washington State Bar offices would be open. She picked up the phone.

Judy, this is Port Fraser. How are you?

The bar official warmed immediately. Just fine, Ms. Fraser. What can I do for you?

Judy, I need to hire a lawyer, preferably someone who can handle our criminal cases. Can you show me some resumes?

Portia could hear the tap of Judy’s computer. A moment later, she spoke. Sure thing! I’ll fax them over to you. All three are good, but there is a JAG lawyer I think you should look at carefully. Let’s see, you have two offices.

Yes, send them to me here in Monrovia. And thanks very much.

No problem. Have a nice day!

Portia turned to a sadder chore. She now had to rally the entire firm to attend the funeral of the son of a family that had been clients of the firm for as long as she could remember. The young Marine had died defending the American embassy in Afghanistan. With the withdrawal of troops from the area, the militant Taliban had reemerged with vigor and now held the elected government there under siege.

The funeral would be at the veteran’s cemetery at Washelli. Portia called her colleague Jan Johnston, and the two of them arranged a firm cortege to the sad event. The military funerals had been many during the decade of war, but this was especially shocking to Portia personally. The dead marine had been a classmate of her daughter Katrina at Monrovia High School, and he’d been captain of the football team.

Jan, let’s send a big fruit basket to their home, instead of the usual flowers, and call the family. Tell them we’ll bring food to their home for the gathering after the service.

Jan Johnston, one of her trusted partners, was dependable and extremely bright. I’ll get right on it. I can’t believe that boy is dead. It’s just the saddest thing for the family.

Portia wiped a tear from her eyes. Her partner continued.

God, I can’t believe this murderous business keeps going on and on. My husband’s talking about requesting active duty in the Corps, said Jan. I’m not too keen on having him go over there."

It would be hard on the community to have Jim leave for active duty, said Portia. We’d need to find a new sheriff.

Let’s see what he decides. He has a strong bond with the Marine Corps, and I’m not about to stand in his way!

Many tears and remembrances were exchanged before the day ended. Portia returned home late, wondering if there was something more that she or the firm could have done to ease the stricken family’s pain.

Chapter 1

February 1

The trial was winding down in the small courtroom in the regional justice center in Monrovia. The two sides had rested and submitted the case to the judge pro tem.

Thank you, gentlemen. Portia Fraser stood up. The black judicial robe set her off like a portrait. At age fifty-three, she was a strikingly handsome woman. She was vaguely aware that her two male colleagues were looking at her with admiration.

If you will leave your e-mail addresses with the clerk, I’ll send you my memorandum decision in a few days, after I check my notes and study your briefs.

Ms. Fraser, would you include a draft of proposed findings and judgment? asked Steve Fallgatter, the plaintiff’s attorney.

Portia turned to the defense attorney, Harvey Bryan. He nodded. I think both of us will accept your decision, he said.

Okay. For the time being, we’re done. Portia unzipped the robe and slipped out of it, hanging it carefully in the robe closet. She was wearing a tailored dark blue suit and a string of pearls. She looked even more winsome in street apparel.

If you two want to see a good lawyer perform, let’s go next door and watch Reney argue her case.

They followed her out of the small magistrate’s court and into the larger courtroom of Superior Court Judge Sam Houston Roberts.

Portia continued speaking. Reney Scott has the most amazing resume you’re likely to see in a long time. It took me only fifteen minutes to decide to hire her.

As they entered the courtroom, a tall, slender black woman rose from the counsel table to address the jury. Irene Reney Scott was about to make her final argument to the jury. Acting as assigned defense counsel for an indigent defendant, she would now try to save him from jail time. Portia and her friends settled down in a visitors’ pew to watch.

Litigation in Cascade County was increasing each year. Criminal cases clogged the dockets, and the old system of rotating private lawyers to defend the indigent had given way to an assigned counsel’s office. Portia Fraser, as president of the local bar association, had been instrumental in persuading the county commissioners of Cascade County to establish and fund the office.

Irene Scott had headed that office for the past two years. She had come to the job fresh out of the judge advocate general of the navy after her release to inactive duty. Within a month, she was the terror of the prosecutor’s office, forcing them to reduce or dismiss charges against indigent defendants or face the prospect of spending scarce resources on jury trials in relatively unimportant cases. The prosecutor’s office expelled a collective breath of relief when it learned that she was leaving the assigned counsel to enter private practice with Fraser, Macomb and Johnston.

Reney paused at the jury rail and then looked back with scorn at her client, an insolent white youth wearing a shabby T-shirt and rumpled low-slung jeans that crowded the floor, covering his flip-flops. He had stringy black hair and an unkempt goatee.

"In the black community, we call a man like Corey Larsen ‘white trash,’ and you can trust me that that exactly fits Mr. Larsen. He is white trash. He does drugs and alcohol and has never done an honest day’s work in his life. You wouldn’t want him anywhere near your sons, let alone your daughters. But rotten as he is as a human being, you must find that there’s insufficient proof to find him guilty of the breaking and entering of that jewelry store. The fact that he was caught running with several others from the scene proves nothing. Anytime Corey Larsen hears a siren, burglar alarm, or even a car alarm, his immediate reaction is to run. He was not found in possession of any stolen items. His prints were not on the rock that broke the window. His apartment was searched, and the police found nothing but beer cans. Being a bad boy does not make him a burglar. Running from a burglary does not make him a burglar. He is a scapegoat, and worthless as he is, you must return a verdict of not guilty.

Reney walked slowly down the jury box, looking into the eyes of each juror. Some of them smiled at her. She smiled back. She returned to her seat at the counsel table, scowled at her client, and sat down. He pushed his chair as far away from her as he could get.

Chapter 2

Later that day

When the jury retired to consider its verdict, Reney came back to greet Portia. Introductions were made.

Come on, let’s get lunch, Portia suggested. I don’t think the jury will deliberate until they’re fed.

Reney left her cell phone number with the clerk, and the group retired down the street to Susan Olynick’s bar and restaurant. Susan’s Office was a lawyer hangout, with the best food and beverage service in Cascade County. It was paneled in walnut, with bright gold art deco furnishings. Patrons liked to linger and soak up its ambience.

Once the wine was poured, Reney seated herself between Bryan and Fallgatter and looked them over. So, guys, where did you two go to law school? Stanford?

They shook their heads.

We both went to the U-Dub Law School, said Fallgatter.

I attended San Diego State, with the JAG picking up my tuition. Were there any black girls in your classes?

They shook their heads.

Did either of you ever date a black girl?

They shook their heads again, looking increasingly uncomfortable.

We’re both married, Bryan said.

"I dated some white guys in San Diego. They were in the navy. They seemed to be turned on dating a black girl. They had wandering hands, but none of them had what it takes to ring my bell.

They looked at her in consternation. She took a swig of wine, leaned back in her chair, and laughed. Portia laughed with her.

You’re putting us on! Fallgater said with some relief in his voice.

That I was, said Reney. It seemed like a good way to break the ice. They all laughed this time.

Susan Olynick, the brassy blond owner of Susan’s Office came over to deliver their luncheon menus. Reney, what the hell are you doing socializing with these high-powered professionals? she demanded.

Can’t a girl go slumming once in a while? Reney grinned. They aren’t too bad when you get to know them, she said flippantly. Their mirth exploded again.

Once they’d ordered, it was Portia’s turn to have some fun. You know, Reney hasn’t tried any civil cases yet, and she needs to get her feet wet. Cynthia Evans at Dynamic Insurance Group sent us two of your plaintiff cases. She looked at Fallgatter. Steve, I was going to give them to Jan Johnston to defend, but I think I’ll turn your cases over to Reney, and you can break her in as defense counsel. She shifted her eyes to Bryan.

That’ll be great! Reney clapped her hands.

Fallgater looked like he’d swallowed a lemon, but to his credit, he remained silent.

Bryan snickered. I’d like to try to settle out of court, Port. Is it okay if I negotiate with Reney?

Portia looked at the smirking lawyer. Sure, go ahead and try to settle. Maybe you should attend Steve’s case and see how Reney handles herself on the civil side of the aisle. That might put you in a proper frame of mind to negotiate.

Later, after they’d eaten and the two lawyers left, Reney remarked, You sure play hardball, Ms. Fraser. I’m going to like learning from you. You were setting those guys up for me to deal with.

You can start by dropping the ‘Ms. Fraser’ and calling me Port like everyone else. Now go back to court and take your verdict, and then come and pick up the two defense files. But before you leave, I want you to meet Susan’s sister Brenda.

They found a big-haired brunette tending bar, and Portia introduced her new associate.

Glad to meet you, said Brenda. Aren’t you defending that little skunk Corey Larsen? He stiffed one of our bartenders for fifteen bucks in drinks. If you see him, tell him he owes me that money because I covered it for the bartender.

I’ll do better than that. Here’s a ten and a five. Corey’s got some money with the jailer, and I’ll get it back out of that.

I like your style, said Brenda. Come in for happy hour, and the first drink will be on the house. She stuffed the money in her pocket.

Walking back to the justice center, Portia remarked, I think you made a friend. Brenda and her sister are close. Brenda is married to Seth Thompson. He’s a jerk, and eventually you’ll cross swords with him, but Brenda keeps him somewhat under control. Let me know when you get your verdict.

Irene Scott was born in San Diego, the oldest child of working parents. She lived a decent middle-class life because her parents worked hard to provide for their five children. From her earliest years, she was called Reney. A precocious child, she excelled in school, and from the time she was eleven, she supervised her four younger brothers. By the time she was in high school, she was playing varsity basketball and earning good money tutoring middle school students from navy families. One of the girls she tutored was Maggie, the daughter of Senior Chief Quartermaster Lonnie Simmons, who happened to be a navy recruiter.

You ought to join the navy, Reney, Chief Simmons had told her. You need a ticket to college, and you can pursue a college degree while you’re training to be a sailor. By the time you finish basic training, I’ll guarantee you duty right here in San Diego, near your family, and you can get into college correspondence courses.

Reney had remained a friend of Simmons and his daughter throughout her navy career, helping Maggie get through school while she was clerking in the Navy JAG office. Her college degree earned, JAG sponsored her legal training at San Diego State University, and she eventually became